Chapter 1: The drowned and the divided baby.
Nothing I have ever said and nothing you will ever do can ever change time or its distortions – the pace of its innocuous drone drivels, or the sighed scrapes of old shoes skidding unbelievable pavements.
Stretch and pull a baby – or cut as Solomon commands – and then listen to the child sing “you needn’t have bothered, I accomplished this division long ago hoping to have pleased you already.”
Or now break and throw your playthings, hang and burn effigies – shame the balding – carry a standard like a saint cheering – or be an advocate for those who might if they can act differently.
Make it rain and drown everything except your family, and ride in Moses’s boat until a dove can be made weightless enough to carry an olive branch back from an alarmed god as charity.
Chapter 2: The kite flier takes up licking salt.
Nothing I have ever said and nothing you will ever do can ever change time or its distortions – stack and stack your anger and your furies, or alternately depress yourselves with your wannabe maybes.
Say to yourself “Oh, I know” and then fly what you know like a kite past a committee of judges who have never made love to beauty or lost sanity because they were addicted to the vagaries of history.
Change your mind or have it changed for you – the milkman – the tattoo lady – the stumpboy – those who would write, change or enforce a role for you – chaining you to a myth of fidelity or loyalty.
Burn the city and its inequities, put clothes back on fleeing citizens, laugh or cry, but do not think that you can lick Lot’s wifes wounds or admire her beauty, without suffering her loss of dignity.
Chapter:3 Carrying a cross never relieves a burden.
Nothing I have ever said and nothing you will ever do can ever change time or its distortions – and nothing about now changes then – dying today will not give life to those who history claims are dead already.
Flowers are not ornaments – breath is useless in balloons – wealth can only be spent by those presently living, and trading places with the past dooms do-gooder’s to lifetimes of frailty.
The crucification is the metaphor that one death can erase the sins of all humanity – that what was-is not – that what will be, can entirely be changed by a glorious act of one “beings” generosity.
Bang boom or bray, stomp kick or punch, mangle and tangle, shoot or stifle – doubt or act certainly – but when you write an encyclopedia of everyone else’s sins you will never sleep or wake peacefully.